Bitter thorn
The young lady I encountered in my drawer appeared and then vanished. In her place a wisp of smoke carries the phosphorus of her frieze. Emigrants exploit the expanses she left behind but the child of our memories brings the tentacles which resemble the six different delights of the young lady who was basically a mother to her child and my mother. Sometimes I live inside the drawer. But every time when some event is not given any name other than that of a cloak underneath which the foundations of a tragic curtain are being undermined I take her last handkerchief and I beg my toad to destroy all wailing which could possibly exist
_____in the chairs and on the curtains.
Poems by Andreas Embeirikos
Translated by N.N. Trakakis